Family Resemblance
by vcg73
Summary: How does a boy connect to a father with whom he has little in common but love? Kurt, Burt and Mercedes.
1. Chapter 1

Set somewhere in the first 13 eps of Season 1, prior to Burt meeting Carole Hudson, when it was strictly a two-Hummel household.

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"Kurt?" Mercedes' voice echoed in the small stairwell as she made her way down the basement steps. "Your dad said I could come right down. Is that okay wi-"

She paused in mid-word, concern filling her warm brown eyes as she got a look at her best friend. Kurt was sitting cross-legged on his sofa with his hands folded in his lap. He was wearing black sweat pants and a red McKinley t-shirt, his feet bare and his hair dipping down into his eyes in messy bangs. He looked tense and unhappy. What was worse, he looked plain. It instantly set off alarm bells in Mercedes. Kurt Hummel normally wouldn't look that unstylish to go to _bed_ at night, much less to greet a friend who had come over to his home for a pre-planned weekend visit.

Crossing over to his side, Mercedes parked herself on the seat next to him and gathered him into her arms, not letting go or bothering to say another word until he finally consented to hug her back. With a deep sigh, he relaxed his arms and dipped his forehead to rest against her shoulder.

"What's wrong, baby?" Mercedes asked at last. "What's got you so depressed?"

"Nothing's wrong."

Mercedes barked a laugh. "Right, and I'm replacing Sue Sylvester as coach of the Cheerios next year."

That got a small smile from Kurt as he sat up and scooted back to give them both enough room to sit comfortably on the small piece of furniture. Setting one foot on the floor, he drew his other leg up to wrap his arms around it, resting his chin atop the bent knee. Mercedes curled her legs sideways, feeling a small pang of envy toward her flexible friend.

"Okay, it's not nothing," Kurt admitted. "It's a long way from nothing."

"Tell me."

"I was helping my dad out at the garage this morning," he began, "and Russ Meyer came in."

She grimaced. "The guy from the furniture store? The one you told me hates your dad?"

He nodded. "Meyer's wife's car broke down just outside of the school on the same day Dad came to pick me up from Glee practice last week when we ran late. It took him, like, five minutes to fix the car and the two of them were very cordial and polite. Mr. Meyer is a jerk, but his wife is really nice and Dad didn't charge her anything for the repair. She thanked him, they shook hands, and we all went our separate ways. I figured that was the end of it."

"But it wasn't?"

Kurt took a deep breath. "Apparently not. Today, we were in the garage taking a break between customers when in comes Russ Meyer; boiling mad and yelling all kinds of terrible things at Dad. He was ranting like a maniac! He accused Dad of hitting on his wife and trying to get a favor out of her for fixing the car. And if you could have just heard the emphasis he put on that word. A _**favor**;_ with this stupid sneer on his ugly chimp face, making it sound like Dad had suggested throwing Mrs. Meyer over the hood of the car and doing her right there in the student parking lot or something."

Mercedes gasped. "Oh, my God! What did your dad do?"

"Nothing!" Kurt said, flailing one hand in an indignant gesture. "He looked mad enough to rip Meyer's heart out and feed it to him, but he just told him he needed to quit drinking in the middle of the afternoon and to get out of his shop. Then Meyer started cussing him out, and Dad just stood there!"

Nose crinkling in confusion, Mercedes asked him, "Why? That doesn't sound like your dad at all."

Kurt met her eyes, confusion filling the blue-green depths. "I wish I knew. All I can tell you is that at that point, I finally lost _my_ temper and told Meyer that he was crazy, that I had been there and absolutely nothing had happened between Dad and his wife and that if he wanted to make up nasty rumors about my father then I would have to let his business partners, his wife _and_ the local events section of the Lima Daily Journal know all about the naked lawn-bowling tournament he and two attractive ladies of unknown origin were holding at his house the last time Mrs. Meyer was out of town visiting her sister."

"Did he _really_?" she demanded, mouth agape and eyes wide.

"No, but I figured why not fight rumor with rumor? I promised that I could convince every one of those people that he had done exactly that, and Meyer apparently thought so too because he backed off."

Mercedes burst out laughing. "That's my boy! What did he do next?"

"Nothing, just turned sort of green, then a weird shade of purple from all the not-breathing he was doing, then started telling me what a horrible, deviant, disgrace to proper society my father was raising and how my mother would have been ashamed to claim me as her own."

Kurt's voice dropped as he said that last part, ending on a bare whisper. Mercedes scooted over and wrapped an arm around him again. Kurt did not abandon his pretzel-like posture but did turn a bit so that she could cuddle him closer.

"Dad finally lost it then. Grabbed Meyer by the collar and belt and literally threw him out of the garage." Kurt actually grinned a little at this. "Dad told him that if he'd ever bother to pull his pointy little head out of his own ass, he'd see that I was like my mom in every way and that if she was alive she'd be as proud of me as he is."

"Go, Daddy!" Mercedes said with a delighted grin.

Her smile faltered when Kurt looked troubled again. "Why, Mercedes? Why would he let Russ Meyer say all those horrible things about him without a word of protest, and then jump in when he had to defend me?"

"I don't know. Maybe he's used to it? From what you've told me, they've hated each other since High School. Your dad probably didn't want to set a bad example for you by getting into a public fight with a drunk, but when Meyer attacked you he _had _to say something. You know your dad loves you way too much to let anyone say a bad word about you. After all, isn't that why you lit into him yourself; 'cause he was attacking your dad?"

Kurt sighed. "Yes. It's just that-"

"What?"

"After Meyer was gone, Dad thanked me for the defense, but said I shouldn't talk to adults that way. I told him I wouldn't stand by and let anybody say such terrible things about him and he . . . he just smiled and told me again that I was exactly like Mom."

Confused by the bleakness in Kurt's voice, Mercedes gave the tense shoulders under her arm a little squeeze. "Isn't that a good thing? Being like your mom?"

"Yeah," he whispered, wrapping his arms tighter around his captured leg. "It is. I mean I loved my mom, a lot, and I'm glad to know that I'm like her, but it bothers me sometimes."

"I don't understand. Why would that bother you?"

"It's stupid," he said, shaking his head. Mercedes waited him out and finally he continued, "It's just, he _always_ says things like that. Whenever he doesn't know what to do about something, he tells me that Mom would know what to do because she understood both of us better. And when Dad's proud of me, he always says that I'm like her. 'You're exactly like your mother, Kurt' or 'I wish your mom could see you now."

Mercedes scooted forward, trying to get a good look at his face. "What is it you wanted him to say?"

"That's the stupid part," Kurt admitted, cheeks flushing. "I wanted him to say that he wished he'd thought of those things I said to Meyer, or that it's exactly what he would have done if I hadn't been there. I don't know how to explain it, Mercedes. It's just . . . sometimes, I wish he could tell me that he's proud of me because I'm _his _son, not hers. It's been almost nine years since Mom died. I want Dad to believe we have something in common other than the fact that we both loved her. Except . . . except I know that we don't."

Kurt seemed to wilt in her grasp and Mercedes held onto him a little bit tighter in reflex. She wished she knew what to say, but the fact was, she could not come up with anything the two Hummel men had in common either.

Fortunately, Kurt did not seem to expect her to. He twisted his neck to look at her, offering a crooked smile. "I'm sorry, 'Cedes. You didn't come all the way over here to listen to me whine about my dad. Do you want to watch a movie or something?"

"It's not whining, it's just venting, and that's exactly why I came over," she said. "I'm here to spend time with my best friend and to listen to him if he needs me."

The forced smile bloomed into a real one. "You're the best, you know that?"

Cheekily, she said, "I know." Leaning closer she gave Kurt a loud wet kiss right on his forehead, laughing when his face crinkled in disgust. He hated it when she did that and Mercedes knew it. "What do you say we hijack that big TV upstairs and play some video games on it while your dad is making dinner?"

"Okay, but if we're interrupting a sport of some kind, _you_ can be the one to explain to him why he isn't allowed to watch it."

"I can handle him," she assured him with a grin. "Your dad loves me, didn't you know that? He's practically putty in my hands."

Kurt smiled, straightening up and holding out a hand to her. "I did know that. Apparently Dad and I do have at least one thing in common, after all."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Mercedes barely paused long enough to allow Kurt to slide on a pair of shoes before dragging him toward the stairs, cutting off the move he had made toward his closet when he glanced down at his unusually casual attire and tried to apologize for it.

"Don't worry about your clothes. It's just me and your dad and we've already seen you," she reminded him. "We're only going to play games, after all."

With a reluctant sigh and one last glance toward his beckoning wardrobe, Kurt gave in. "Fine, but if anyone asks you, I looked fabulous."

Putting on a serious face, Mercedes raised her right hand. "I solemnly swear that Parisian runway models were calling you to ask for styling advice."

Kurt laughed; the surprised, heartfelt chortle that Mercedes loved so much and heard all too rarely. She grinned and hauled him up the narrow flight of steps before he could change his mind and go into a fashion frenzy that would eat up their entire evening.

"Hey, Dad?" Kurt called as they reached the top of the stairs. "How long will it be until dinner is ready?"

Burt emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a paper towel. "Should be about an hour or so; I was just putting a few finishing touches on the casserole. Why, you hungry?"

"Depends," Kurt told him. "Are you fixing the kind with chicken and potatoes or the kind with tuna and egg noodles?"

"Chicken."

He smiled. "Then, yes, I'm hungry."

Burt laughed. "Somehow, I had a feeling you'd say that. What about you, Mercedes? You joining us for dinner?"

"Don't be afraid to say, yes. Dad's chicken casserole is usually pretty good," Kurt assured her.

"Gee, thanks, son," Burt said sarcastically, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow toward Mercedes. "Please tell me the food critic over here isn't hiring you to be his taste-tester."

A delighted chuckle burst from her lips before she could stop it. It wasn't so much the quip as the fact that Burt's posture, right down to the way he had shifted his weight onto his back foot and raised his chin in pretend indignance, reminded her so very much of Kurt. When the two Hummels exchanged an identical puzzled shrug at her reaction, she just laughed harder.

"Sorry, sorry," she gasped, waving a hand in apology. "That just . . . really struck me as funny. I'd love to stay, thanks. I told my mom I would either eat here or get something on my way home."

"Great, I'll set another place."

Mercedes glanced at the big-screen TV, which was currently showing a basketball game, and flashed her most charming smile. "Kurt promised to play Dance-Dance-Revolution with me, Mr. Hummel. Do you think we could use the TV up here? There really isn't enough space for the dance mats down in Kurt's room."

Seeing Kurt open his mouth to protest her choice of game, Mercedes subtly kicked him, never losing her expression of pleading eyes and hopeful smile.

Burt checked his game and shrugged, grabbing the remote and shutting it off. "Sure, go ahead. The Cavs are getting their butts handed to 'em anyway. I gotta go finish making dinner. You kids have fun."

As he turned and walked back into the kitchen, Kurt gaped at his best friend. "How did you do that? More importantly, can you teach me to do it?"

Mercedes laughed. "Sorry, Kurt. Trade secret." Gesturing toward the television, she asked, "We gonna play or what?"

Balancing on one foot, Kurt rubbed the shin she had kicked. "What'd you kick me for? It's not enough that you go and choose a game you're already better at than I am, you also have to increase your odds of winning by maiming the competition."

She simply grinned, unrepentant. "You might as well get used to pain, white boy. That little kick is not going to hurt near as much as the ass-whooping I'm about to hand you."

"Oh, bring it on, sister," he snapped back, quickly removing his portable game system and the necessary accessories from a cabinet under the television and hooking everything up with expert speed. "You're goin' down."

A while later, Burt came back into the living room to watch them, drawn by the wild laughter as Kurt and Mercedes pounded out steps on the portable dance pads. Kurt had an adapter that allowed him to hook up two pads at once for competition mode and it was clear that both teens were in the zone. For the moment, Mercedes had the upper hand but Kurt was gaining ground as the colored arrows moved faster and faster.

Finally, Kurt missed a step and lost his rhythm, ending his round within seconds. "Oh, _man_," he moaned, plunking down to sit on the carpet at his father's feet and panting as he watched Mercedes continue her game winning dominance on the dance floor. "Now I owe her a facial."

Mercedes threw up her hands and stopped dancing. "Enough," she declared, blowing out an exhausted breath. "And don't feel bad, Kurt. You won the manicure round."

"True," he said, obviously pleased with the reminder.

"Wait, you were playing for . . ."

Kurt just nodded at his father's nonplussed expression. "Spa services."

Burt sighed. "Right. Of course you were."

His father's reaction unintentionally deflated some of Kurt's enthusiasm. "The competition is better when you have something to play toward," he explained quietly.

"Want to try it, Mr. Hummel?" Mercedes interjected, hoping to salvage her friend's newly gained good mood. "It's a lot of fun."

"Oh, no, I don't think," he began, then paused, seeming to realize that his dismissive comment of a moment ago had hurt his son's feelings. "Aw, hell, why not? But no laughing at the old man, 'kay, Kurt?"

Kurt's eyes widened in pure astonishment. "You really want to play?"

"Well, I can't do what you two were doing, but if this game has a Beginner level or something, I'll give it a shot," he declared bravely.

A grin spread over Kurt's face and he scrambled back up to his feet, resetting the controls at once.

Together, they explained how the game worked and gave a slo-mo demonstration while Burt watched. Kurt made him take off his heavy-soled work boots, afraid they would damage the sensitive pad, but then allowed him to take a turn.

At first, Burt did everything wrong, displaying a level of dance aptitude that made Finn Hudson look like Fred Astaire, and sending the two teenagers into fits of helpless giggling. But after a few minutes and some helpful suggestions, he began to get the hang of it.

Kurt laughed delightedly as he and his father began to hop and stomp in a relatively slow but surprisingly accurate pattern on the pads. "Want to go faster?"

"Uh . . ."

Taking that for assent, Kurt changed the controls again, making them speed up. Laughing and cursing, Burt did his best but soon had to declare himself defeated. "Okay, that's it! I'm just too darned old for things like this."

"That was great, Dad!"

He smiled and ruffled his son's hair. "Don't sound so shocked. I may be a little out of practice now, but I wasn't such a bad dancer when I was your age."

Kurt made a face. "Wasn't that when Disco was still considered hot, though?"

Exchanging a glance with Mercedes, the two of them broke into the spazzy little dance Mr. Schuester had taught them a couple of months ago to the song, "Le Freak".

Burt grinned and joined in for a couple of the moves he recognized, causing them to break down in laughter again.

"You're not bad, Mr. H," Mercedes told him. "Maybe we should get Mr. Shue to recruit you for glee club."

"April Rhodes did set a precedent for old people," Kurt pointed out with a devilish little grin, ducking the playful swat his father aimed at his head.

Burt shook his head and told Mercedes, "I'm afraid I wouldn't qualify anyway. Kurt gets his singing ability from his mother's side." He smiled fondly. "Like pretty much everything else."

Mercedes winced when Kurt's smile abruptly vanished and he shut off the game-console's power with a sharp stab. Heading for the basement, he mumbled a barely-polite, "Bathroom, be right back," and disappeared into his sanctuary.

"What'd I say?" the perplexed father asked, shooting Mercedes a confused look.

Unsure whether Kurt would volunteer anything himself, and not wanting to betray her best friend's confidence, Mercedes compromised. "I think he's still kind of upset about what happened at your garage this morning. He told me somebody insulted you guys and said something mean about him and his mom."

Burt sighed deeply, running a hand over his scalp. "And I reminded him of it. Damn it, I should have known he let that go too easy."

Mercedes bit her lip, glancing from the distraught father to the open basement door. "You know, Mr. Hummel, I think I'm going to pass on dinner tonight. You and Kurt really need some time alone together." Seeing that he was about to offer a token protest, she decided to be blunt. "Talk to him. Sometimes a guy . . . even a guy like Kurt . . . heck, _especially_ a guy like Kurt, needs to know that his dad is proud of him and that he's worth a little of that special man-to-man bonding stuff that guys do. You know what I'm saying?"

He nodded, blue eyes looking a little sad. "Yeah, I know. It's not easy, though."

Sympathy rolled over her like a tidal wave. Mr. Hummel looked so lost and she was struck again by how familiar the expression was. She reached out and squeezed his hand in lieu of the hug she would have given his son. "It wouldn't mean as much to him if it was easy. What he cares about is that you're willing to try."

Burt turned a startled look on her. "My wife used to say that to me."

"Then I guess you know it's good advice." She smiled and patted him on the arm. "See you later, Mr. H. Tell Kurt to call me tomorrow. I fully intend to collect on that facial."

He smiled back at her. "I'll tell him. And Mercedes? Thanks."

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Burt wasted a few minutes putting away the video game accessories and checking on dinner, needing a little time to consider what he wanted to say to Kurt. But when Kurt did not come back upstairs, he went down to find him.

The basement bedroom was empty, a light from the partially open bathroom giving away Kurt's location. With a cursory knock, Burt opened the door and stuck his head in.

"Hey!" Kurt yelped, automatically covering his chest with the t-shirt he had previously been wearing, then relaxing when he realized, "Oh, Dad, it's you. For a second I thought you were Mercedes. I'll be up in a minute. All that jumping around got me kind of sweaty and I wanted to wash up a little before dinner."

"Didn't mean to startle you," he said, absently noting that the boy had wet his hair and slicked it back out of his eyes before starting on his face, which was now covered by the suds of some sort of fruity smelling soap. "Mercedes decided she didn't want to stay for dinner, after all. She told me to ask you to call her tomorrow so you can set up your spa-day."

A dismayed look came over Kurt's face. "She's gone? Without even saying goodbye?" Outrage suddenly snapped in his eyes, the flash of emotion turning them a vivid shade of blue. "What did you say to her? Did you kick her out?"

Exasperated, Burt came all the way in and helped himself to a seat on the closed toilet lid. "Kick her out? Why would I do a thing like that? After _you_ went stomping out of the living room a few minutes ago, your friend thought she might be intruding on something that was going on between you and me. And the way you're acting now, I think she might be right. Are you still upset about what happened this morning?"

"Of course not," he said, so quickly that Burt instantly knew that he was lying. The additional fact that Kurt had begun scrubbing his face with a level of violent concentration that seemed more likely to remove his skin than clean it, also gave away his distress.

"Well, I'm surprised to hear that because it sure as hell upset me," Burt told him. "Frankly, I could use an ear to bend for awhile if you've got one to spare."

Kurt straightened and stared at him, so surprised that he did not even seem to notice that beads of water were dripping from his nose, chin and eyelashes and sliding down his torso. "You . . . want to talk about your feelings? With me?"

Burt stood and grabbed a towel from the rack, helpfully patting Kurt's thin chest and sweet boyish face dry, unable to keep from smiling at the long-lost familiarity of the gesture. "Sure. Isn't that part of what family is for? I mean, I know I'm not exactly the poster boy for that kind of sharing, but you're growing up, Kurt. I figure you're old enough now that I can trust you with a little man to man conversation."

Pride visibly welled up in the boy, straightening his posture and bringing a happy gleam to his eyes. "I'll be glad to listen, if you want me to. I . . . I did kind of wonder what was going on between you and Mr. Meyer today. Why'd you let him talk to you that way and . . . and why did he bring up Mom?"

Kurt ducked his head at the mention of his mother, but Burt crooked a finger under his chin and lifted it back up, encouraging his son to look him in the eye. "I guess I never told you about any of that, did I?" Moving his hand to Kurt's narrow shoulder, he gave it a squeeze. "Why don't you finish up here and come up to my room? I got something to show you."

Kurt nodded, clutching the towel in both hands and watching wordlessly as his father turned and quickly exited the room.

In less than five minutes, Kurt was at his father's door, clothes changed, hair combed and face gleaming slightly with a layer of moisturizer that had not yet soaked all the way into his pores. Burt smothered a smile, thinking he could have saved himself a lot of late mornings if he had known that the promise of a little personal sharing would be so motivating.

"C'mere," he said, patting the bed next to him.

Kurt obeyed, casting a curious look toward his mother's old dresser which sat with its top drawer open, the scent of familiar perfume barely perceptible in the air.

Burt held out a cardboard shoebox.

"What's this?" Kurt asked, tracing the edge of the box without opening it.

His eyes again moved toward the open drawer and Burt nodded. "It's the one from your mom's dresser. You ever looked inside before?"

Kurt blushed. "I wanted to," he admitted softly, "but I . . . wasn't sure if I should."

A sigh drifted from somewhere deep in Burt's chest, almost feeling as if it came from his heart instead of his lungs. There was such longing in Kurt's eyes, now flashing green in reflection of the soft, moss colored sweater he had donned; changeable eyes so much like his mother's.

"She wouldn't have minded, but I'm kind of glad you waited for me," Burt told him honestly. "It took a long time before I could look at this stuff and enjoy the memories, but I should have tried harder for your sake. It's not fair that you have so little to remember your mom by."

He swallowed thickly. "I understood."

_You shouldn't have had to understand._ The words were in Burt's mind but he clamped down on them firmly before they could reach his lips. Kurt did not need pity, much less to share in his father's self-pity. He needed answers.

Taking back the box, Burt removed the lid and set it aside, revealing photographs and a few old envelopes. There were not a lot of pictures, this had been Burt's own box of mementos and he had never been as good about keeping things organized as his wife was, but the items that were inside were special to him.

Removing one, he handed the picture to Kurt. "Recognize that guy right there?"

Kurt studied the image of two teenage boys in letterman jackets and a girl in a cheerleading costume. He traced the dark-haired football player on the left with his index finger. "How old were you?"

"Sixteen, same as you."

"Not exactly the same," he said with a smile.

Burt smiled back. He had not been any taller than Kurt in those days, but he had been squarely and strongly built, visibly muscular and all but reeking of "jock". "Well, maybe a little bit different. How about the other two?"

Kurt shifted his focus to the happy couple posing with their arms around each other. His pleased expression twisted into one of shock. "Is that Mom and . . ."

"Russ Meyer," Burt confirmed. "Yeah, it is. Russ is a year older than me but he was my best friend when were in high school, the star quarterback, and Karen Marshall was his girlfriend. They were such a perfect, popular, stereotype couple that it was almost sickening. And I had a huge crush on my best friend's girl that I couldn't tell anybody about."

Caught somewhere between fascination and dismay, Kurt looked at him and asked, "What happened?"

"Well, Russ was kind of a wild kid, and I'm not going to deny that I was right there next to him most of the time. If there was a party to be found or a secret stash of booze to be had, Russ always knew where to get them. It was fun at first, daring and all, but the difference was that I could control myself and Russ never could. He'd get drunk and he'd get mean. He'd go after weaker kids, pick on anything that was different about 'em, and while I didn't help, I also didn't try as hard as I should have to stop it." Burt sighed; hating the look of betrayal he could see flashing in Kurt's expressive eyes at those words "Then one night, after the Homecoming game my junior year, Russ got mad because we'd lost the game and he got drunk and tried to take his temper out on Karen."

"He hit Mom?" Kurt gasped, fingers tightening on the photo.

Burt shook his head. "He shoved her, knocked her down. Might've done worse, but I saw red and pulled him away from her. He threw a punch at me and that was all the excuse I needed to beat him to a bloody pulp. Broke his throwing arm in two places."

"Good!" Kurt said firmly, shooting the blond boy in the photograph a look that suggested Kurt would have liked to get in a few blows of his own.

Burt laid an understanding hand on his shoulder. "Not good," he contradicted gently. "What he did was wrong, and I'm glad I stopped him. I'm even glad I punched him, but I went too far, Kurt. He had a lot of issues that it's not my place to talk about, stuff that led to what I now know was about to become a lifelong drinking problem. When I busted up his arm, I also killed his chance at the scholarship that might have got him into college and away from Lima."

"But you rescued Mom," Kurt reminded him, clearly feeling that the end result had decidedly justified the means. "And she fell in love with you, like it should have been all along."

Burt smiled at the youthful idealism of that statement. Hard as he tried to portray himself as a cynic, when it came to love Kurt was still young enough to believe in the possibility of a fairy tale ending.

"Actually, she was mad at me. Lit into me something fierce when I tried to excuse what I had done, saying that if I was going to act like a bully and continue to be just as thoughtless and cruel and superior to all those kids I thought were losers-"

"Kids like me," Kurt interjected quietly.

Burt pretended like he hadn't heard. "As Russ had, then I was just as bad as him. Or worse, because I knew better." Shaking his head, he admitted, "Thing is, she was right. And because I loved her, I set out to prove myself to her. No more partying, no more harassing, none of it. Karen broke up with Russ and we ended up dating throughout the remainder of high school. Then she got a full ride scholarship to Ohio State, while I was only going as far as the Junior College in Carmel, so we called it quits."

"Did you want to go with her, to the University," Kurt asked curiously.

He smiled. "Nah, I had my own dream and while making a career as an auto mechanic in a little town like Lima wouldn't be for everybody," he said, dashing Kurt's bangs away from his eyes, "it was what I wanted. Your mom had bigger dreams. She got an Arts degree, spent a year travelling through Europe, and could have taken the whole world by storm if she'd wanted to. We stayed in touch all that time but I pretty much figured any chance I had at winning her heart had ended with high school graduation. Then she came home and, much to my surprise, we fell in love all over again, even harder than before. I was worried that she wouldn't be happy here but she said that an artist could live from anywhere and Lima was as good a place as any, as long as I was here with her. We got married six months later."

Handing Kurt the photo of his and Karen's wedding, a smaller version of the large portrait downstairs in the living room, he smiled, still feeling the wonder of that fact so many years later.

"You never told me _any_ of this before," Kurt said with a hint of accusation in his voice, examining the stack of bound letters that Burt pulled from the box next, Karen Marshall's letters home addressed to her dearest friend and love, Burt Hummel. "Dad, would you mind . . . I mean, is it okay if I read these? Please?"

Unsurprised by the request, Burt nodded. "Sure you can. Just make sure you put everything back in this box when you're done, okay?"

He nodded vigorously, so overwhelmed with the possibility of recapturing the spirit of his late mother through her letters that he could not speak.

"Anyhow, to make a long story short, I kept working at the garage and eventually became a manager, on my way to becoming a full partner in the business. Russ Meyer took over his dad's furniture store when he died and we pretty much never spoke to each other after that. I did try to talk to him a couple times, to put the past behind us, but he firmly believes that I ruined his life and that's all there is to it. He got especially bad after your mom and I got married. He seemed to think that our falling for each other was some kind of personal vendetta against him. It got even worse a couple years later when I took over as senior partner at the garage and Karen got pregnant with you."

"So, is that why he doesn't like me?" Kurt wondered. "I just assumed he was a homophobe, like so many other people in this town. But it's because I'm living proof that you and Mom loved each other, isn't it?"

A little startled by the insight, Burt nodded. "I think so. He's got a nice little wife of his own and a successful business, but he never had any kids. Russ seemed to think I got everything out of life that he should have had, and even when your mom died it didn't change anything between us. She always felt sorry for him, urged me to forgive him, and I've tried to for her sake. But it ain't easy, kid. Especially now. When he went after you this morning, I could have happily broken the other arm and both legs just to give him the full set."

Kurt laughed at the vicious comment, surprising his father again. "It wouldn't have done any good, Dad. I think Mr. Meyer must be one of those people Great-Grandpa Hummel used to tell me about when I was a little kid." Pitching his voice into a low, reedy pitch, Kurt solemnly intoned, "Some people are just assholes, boy. The only thing you can do is stay out of their way and avoid the shit."

Burt burst out laughing. "That's good advice, son. I think we should follow it." A waft of savory fragrance suddenly caught Burt's nostrils. "And I also think we should follow our noses downstairs and have some dinner. What do you say?"

"Good idea," he agreed, standing and clutching the repacked shoe-box in his arms. "And, Dad? Thanks for this. I mean, not just for the letters and all, but for talking to me."

"You're welcome. Thanks for listening, I really do feel better."

Cheeks flushing, Kurt said, "Me, too. Sometimes, it bothers me a little that. . ."

"That what?" When the boy still hesitated, he said, "You can tell me, Kurt."

Visibly gathering his courage, Kurt told him. "I wasn't going to say anything, but Mercedes thinks I should."

Burt smiled. "Well, her advice is working out okay so far. Why don't you give it a try?"

"It's just . . . I know that you and I don't have much in common, and I'm glad that the stuff we _don't_ have in common reminds you so much of Mom, because I'm really proud to be like her. But sometimes I can't help wondering if . . . well, if Mom was alive; would there be anything about me that would remind her of _you?_ Just a little, maybe?"

Understanding what he meant by that awkward but hopeful question, Burt felt his heart swell. Why had he assumed that being openly gay meant that Kurt would not want to be anything like him? After all, didn't _all_ boys in some way want to emulate their dads?

"You mean, you like artsy stuff and I like sports, but you figure there's got to be something in the middle that we would both enjoy?"

Kurt nodded.

He smiled and looped an arm around his son's shoulders. "That makes perfect sense to me. In fact, what would you say to the idea of you and me having ourselves a guys' night out? It's a little late tonight, but we'll put our heads together during dinner and figure out what we should go do together one day this week."

Kurt's answering grin was big enough to tell Burt that he had, for once, said exactly the right thing on the first try. Not always an easy chore when dealing this mercurial boy of his. And now that the question had been planted, he was kind of curious to know the answer himself.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Mercedes rang the doorbell and had to wait only a few seconds before Burt Hummel answered the door. "Hi, Mr. H," she greeted with a smile.

"Hey, Mercedes," he replied, moving aside to let her in. "At the risk of giving you déjà vu, Kurt is in his room, so just go on down."

She laughed. "We did kind of have this exact conversation yesterday, didn't we?"

He just shrugged and gestured her onward, a man of few words, as usual.

Making her way down to the basement, Mercedes felt a stab of anxiety as she beheld her friend. Kurt was dressed normally today, which is to say that he looked like he'd just stepped off the cover of some high-fashion designer's latest catalogue, and his hair was the picture of perfection. His eyes, however, were streaming tears. The flood was barely held in check by the soggy-looking handkerchief in his hand as he read through what appeared to be a letter.

"Kurt?"

He looked up, seeming a little startled to find her there even though she had not been making any attempt at stealth in her descent of the basement steps. Dabbing at his puffy eyes, he glanced at the clock on his bedside table. "Mercedes. Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't realize the time," he apologized, his voice sounding hoarse and nasally. "I promised I'd give you your facial at noon, didn't I?"

"Forget about that. Why are you crying?" she demanded, sitting next to him and tenderly stroking an errant teardrop from his cheek. "Your text said things went pretty well with your dad yesterday. Did something happen?"

Kurt laughed, blinking hard as more tears slid free of his control. "Pretty well? Oh, Mercedes, things went _so_ much better than well. Here, read."

She accepted the page he shoved into her hand, a puzzled frown on her face as she read aloud: "_May 6__th__, 1991. _

_My Dearest Burt. Paris is the most amazing city! Color and beauty pouring out of every part of it and I've done enough sketches since I got here last week to wallpaper the entire Lima city hall! Everything around me is charged with energy today, so full of life and promise that I felt I would be betraying the city's very soul if I did not get out and become a part of it. _

_Oh, I can just picture the look on your face as I say that. A city with a soul, you snort, as if such a thing could really exist! But it does and one day very soon I will tell you all about it, face to face. _

_Yes, you read that correctly. In one month's time, Karen Marshall will once again become a full-time resident of Lima, Ohio, USA. Now you might think, after all my gushing letters detailing the wonders of Europe, that this would be a sad fact for me, but it isn't. As much as I __will__ miss the glamour and excitement, I have learned a few things about myself on this trip. And perhaps the most important is that this little globe-trotter is a homebody at heart. (Shh, don't tell anyone!) _

_Yesterday evening, I stood on a picturesque little balcony looking over the City of Lights, the Eiffel tower gleaming like a beacon in the distance. Surely the most romantic view in existence, and yet I found myself incredibly homesick and wishing with all my heart that I was really looking at a simple little tire shop, run by a cute, blue-eyed boy with a shy smile and grease-stained coveralls."_

Kurt stopped her with a hand on her arm, his face flushing. "It gets really mushy after that."

"Your mom wrote your dad love letters from Paris_!_" Mercedes breathed. "And he kept them for all these years. That's _so_ romantic!"

"I know," Kurt sighed happily. "Dad gave me a whole series of these letters to read and they're all completely wonderful. I can almost hear my mom's voice when I read the words."

Mercedes carefully folded the page and handed it back, awed by how much she knew these letters would mean to her best friend. "That's wonderful, Kurt. I'm so happy for you."

"I knew Mom had been to France," he said, stroking the page with tender fingertips. "I can remember her telling me stories about it, but I just thought she meant on a vacation or something. Somehow, when you're little you assume your parents have spent their whole lives together. I never knew that she'd actually lived in Europe, by herself for a whole year after graduating from college."

Mercedes was shocked. "Your mom and dad spent a year apart?"

He nodded. Putting the letters carefully back in their shoebox, he turned to face her and took both of her hands in his; eagerly filling her in on the family history lesson his dad had shared with him the previous night.

"Wow," she breathed when he had finished. "Your dad was like a knight in shining armor or something. And here I thought that nothing romantic ever happened in Lima!"

"Isn't it amazing?" he agreed, eyes shining.

Mercedes smiled. "What's really amazing is that your mother chose living here with your dad over spending her life in Paris."

Kurt shrugged, unable to fully hide the pride he felt in that. "What good is a city you love if you don't have the person you love there to share it with you?"

"You're right, and she definitely made the right choice." Impulsively, she hugged him. "I don't even want to _think_ about a life that might have never had you in it!"

The blush returned, fiercer than before, but Kurt was clearly flattered. Pressing a hand to his overheated cheek, he laughed. "Maybe we'd better get started on that facial. I should give myself one too; otherwise I won't be fit to be seen in public for at least a week."

Realizing that Kurt was not ready to talk in depth about his mother, still struggling to accept the reality of having a new tangible connection to her, Mercedes allowed his change of subject. "Sounds good to me. Can we start with some of that deep-pore cleanser that smells like watermelons? And is it okay if we use some of your aromatherapy candles?"

"Of course. You can have whatever you like," Kurt promised magnanimously. "You won the facial of your choice yesterday and that means you are getting the full Chez Hummel special."

"Do you want me to do your manicure first? After all, with self service you don't get the neck massage."

Kurt perked right up. "You wouldn't mind?"

Mercedes grinned. "Roll up those sleeves and hand me the cuticle oil, baby. I got this."

For half an hour, she trimmed, buffed and shaped. By the time she started the hand and arm massage, Kurt looked as contented as a cat lying in a sunbeam with a saucer full of cream. He sat with his face resting in the palm of his left hand, eyes half-closed in bliss as Mercedes gently rotated his right wrist and kneaded the muscles in his forearm. "You could become seriously rich if you offered this service at school," he said dreamily. "Doing hand-massages for the Cheerios alone could probably put you through college."

She laughed. "I'll think about it. So, did you and your dad decide what to do for the guys' night you texted me about?"

"Promise you won't laugh?" he asked, pulling his right arm back and offering the left.

Mercedes turned his hand up and began kneading her thumbs into his palm, smiling when Kurt made a sound that was suspiciously close to a purr. "I promise."

"There's one more week left out at Birch Park before it closes down for the winter," he said, clearly a little embarrassed by the choice.

Birch Park was a carnival and midway that had been a standing attraction for Lima families for well over half a century. It was closed during the winter months and rarely attracted much of a crowd this late in the season, but they had games and food and a few simple rides that still attracted a sufficient number of customers to keep things running.

"Dad and I couldn't agree on any kind of ticketed event and since the point of the whole thing is supposed to be spending time together, the walk and talk atmosphere of the park didn't seem like such a bad compromise. We're going on Tuesday afternoon, after school."

"I think it's a great choice. I love that place," Mercedes told him with an approving grin. "Me and my whole family used to go out there every summer. You and your dad will have fun."

Kurt nibbled his lower lip in thought. "I don't suppose you want to come with us?"

"Wouldn't that kind of defeat the purpose of male-bonding?"

He sighed. "Maybe. I'm just afraid that we'll go all the way out there and then spend the entire evening being completely awkward with each other. We haven't been to Birch Park since my mom was still alive. What if the whole thing is a big fat failure and we just wind up feeling bad because we can't find anything to talk about?"

Reacting to the distress in his voice and the sudden tension in the arm she held between her hands, Mercedes dug her fingers in harder, forcing him to relax and said, "Well, maybe I could talk one or two of the other Glee kids into going out there with me and we could, sort of, accidentally run into you and your dad there."

"Would you?"

His big eyes gleamed like jewels, filled with an intense pleading expression that Mercedes suspected would be capable of melting even the stone-cold heart of Sue Sylvester. Her own, far softer heart had no chance against it at all. "I'll be there."

Kurt pulled his hand free of her grasp and stood, throwing both arms around her. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" he gushed, making his best friend laugh.

"But, Kurt, what if you don't need us? Suppose that you and your dad really do have a great time and you don't want company."

He considered that. "Send me a text and I'll let you know how it's going, so you know whether to approach or not."

"Okay, but you should use some kind of secret code word," she coaxed playfully, "in case your dad sees it."

"Um, how about you text me the word McQueen? I'll respond with A. L. or S."

Mercedes nose wrinkled. "Huh?"

"A for Alexander, meaning everything is perfect. L for Lightning, meaning get over here and stage an intervention as fast as you possibly can. S for Steve, meaning the situation has gone critical and the Great Escape is required."

Mercedes raised an eyebrow. "The Great Escape?"

"Dad's favorite movie," he explained. "We watch it every year on Father's Day. Lightning is in case Dad is driving me crazy. Steve is in case I'm driving him crazy. Get it?"

"It really worries me that I do."

Kurt smiled sweetly at her. "Thanks, Mercedes." Wiping his hands off on a soft towel, he gestured her toward the comfortable lounge-back chair he had pulled out especially for her. "I think it's your turn for some pampering now. Prepare yourself for the facial of your dreams and a neck and shoulder massage so good it will turn you into my willing servant for life."

She laughed. "Oh, I think it might already be too late on that last part."

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

School went well on Monday and Tuesday. Everyone was in a good mood and even the bullies seemed unusually mellow with the approach of the oncoming winter holidays and had not harassed Kurt even one time. Still, he was growing successively more anxious about his trip to Birch Park as the event grew closer. He pretended nonchalance when Tina and Artie, whom Mercedes had talked into joining her for Emergency Moral Support duty, had asked him for details, but in truth he was feeling increasingly jittery and was relieved to know that he would have some backup. Mercedes was doing him a favor, after all, and he had been prepared to let her off the hook if nobody else was willing to go along, not liking the idea of her wandering through the park all alone.

By the time Kurt got home from school on Tuesday, excitement was winning out over nerves. He would never admit it to anyone, but he knew that the heart of a little kid still beat beneath the cool, fashionable exterior he showed to the world, and that child was virtually doing handsprings and cartwheels at the thought of Daddy taking him to the carnival.

School had let out at 3 o'clock and Dad would be home some time after four. Birch Park was open until 11pm on weekdays, so they were planning to have dinner there and spend a few hours enjoying the sites. Even the thought of greasy carnival food was not enough to dim Kurt's enthusiasm.

Going straight to the basement, he raced through his homework. He knew the quality was probably not as good as usual, but at least it would be done and he could go out with a clear conscience. He knew his father much too well to think that he would be allowed to simply blow off his school-work in favor of playing games.

When Burt Hummel came in the door at 4:30 pm, Kurt all but pounced on him. "Hi, Dad! I did all my homework. Can we go now?"

Burt grinned at the eager words, all jammed together so fast he could barely separate them. "Give me a second to put my stuff away, will you?" Looking his son over, Burt shook his head at the ¾ length plaid trousers, beige silk shirt and matching plaid waistcoat he was wearing. "Go change your clothes, Kurt. It'll be cold out at the park and we're going to be outside the whole time. And there's a chance that you'll get dirty, so you might want to lay off the fancy stuff."

Though Kurt strongly suspected that his dad just didn't want to be seen in public with what he liked to refer to as "my son, the fashion-plate", he could also see the logic in his suggestion. It was only about fifty degrees outside right now and the temperature would certainly drop lower as the night progressed.

"Be right back," he promised.

Dashing downstairs, Kurt rifled through his closet, quickly considering and discarding a dozen choices. Something casual would be best. Pegged blue jeans and the royal blue double-layer Gucci sweater that Aunt Mildred had send him for his birthday, (Hey, the woman was a lush, but she did have great taste in clothes), along with his black lace-up Prada boots, he decided. Kurt briefly considered his collection of hats, but opted against one. His hair was looking more than usually fabulous today, after all. He did, however, grab a long cashmere scarf done in blocks of gray and blue, just for flair.

Happy with his choice, he quickly changed clothes and raced back upstairs to find his dad waiting with a smile, Kurt's favorite black Marc Jacobs walking jacket outstretched in his hands. Kurt grinned and slipped into the coat. A small part of him wondered, as he watched his dad pull on a beat-up baseball cap and shrug a plain, dark brown coat on over his baggy blue jeans and red plaid work shirt, whether anyone would ever guess that they were father and son.

"Ready to go?" Burt checked, patting his pockets for wallet and keys out of reflex.

"Sure am," Kurt told him, surreptitiously checking his own pocket for his cellular phone. He had a good feeling about tonight, but it was still comforting to know that he had Mercedes and company on standby in case he needed them.

As Burt's truck pulled out of the driveway, Kurt forced his excited body to be still as he realized that he was actually bouncing a little in his seat. The radio was playing some country singer who sounded as if he was about to keel over and die, so Kurt rolled the dial in search of something better. He paused for Beyonce, scowling when his dad reached over and immediately gave the station another spin. The next song to come up was some heavy metal band that had them both racing to turn it off. Kurt got to the switch first and decided to try out one of the 'Classic' stations that Finn Hudson always listened to.

"Nirvana?" Burt said incredulously when the song started, his recognition of the band surprising Kurt a little. "That song's not a _classic. _It's not even twenty years old!"

"It's older than me," Kurt pointed out.

Burt snorted. "I've got underwear that's older than you."

"Ew," Kurt retorted. He changed the station again, this time finding the song 'Pink Cadillac'. Seeing that his father looked happier with this one, Kurt decided to leave it alone. At least it wasn't John Mellencamp.

"Springsteen, now _that's_ a classic," Burt declared.

Bopping his head in time to the music, he started singing along with the radio. Kurt grinned and joined in on the chorus, the only part of this particular song that he actually knew. A part of him was amazed to note that their voices actually blended very well together. It had been a long time since they had done anything like this, and in those days Kurt had not yet had dozens of Glee practices under his belt to give him an appreciation for harmonies.

"How come you always say I get my voice from Mom?" he wondered aloud. "We sing in different keys but you're not bad at all."

Burt glanced at him, surprise in his eyes as he realized that Kurt was serious. "Oh, well, thanks. This is about as far as it goes for me, though. Your mom was the one who always sang around the house, in the shower or cleaning up the house, or cooking dinner. She was always singing something in that beautiful sweet voice that you used to say must be what angels sounded like. You remember that?"

"Sort of," Kurt said. He did remember his mother singing, but sadly the memory was getting dimmer with every passing year.

"Sometimes when I hear you down in the basement, or singing some real high girl's song while you work on a car over at the garage, I have to stop and remind myself that it's not her."

Kurt ventured, "So, it really doesn't bother you that my voice never dropped very much? I had wondered. I mean, I know I don't sound like most guys my age."

"Well, that's because you're _not _like most guys your age. And it's okay if you're a little girly," Burt assured him. "I'm used to it."

Not quite sure whether he appreciated that or not, Kurt sighed and turned back to the radio dial, searching out another song as the current station went to commercial.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

It was just after five when they arrived at the park. In the dimness of twilight the first of the neon lights were coming on and bright electric bulbs lit up the few rides that gave Birch Park its claim as a local tourist attraction. Kurt took a deep sniff of the cold air as he exited the truck, unable to prevent the small gasp of shock as the mingled scents swept over him. Greasy food, sugar, mud, oil - probably from the ever-moving gears of the carnival rides - and that weird mixed-up odor that came from too many humans packed into a single location. It was magnetic and at the same time repulsive. It was pure overwhelming memory; the feeling of once again being that tiny boy who had excitedly clutched Mommy's hand or wound chubby fingers into the loops of Daddy's belt as they came to this place for a day of fun and family togetherness. It was heartwarming nostalgia mixed with heartbreaking loss.

Kurt had not realized that his father had come around the truck to stand beside him until he felt a hand gently squeeze the back of his neck.

"I know, kid. Me, too," was all that Burt said, but suddenly Kurt could breathe again, the suffocating rush of memory receding to a warm feeling deep inside his chest.

He looped an arm around his father's waist and hugged him. Teenaged guys were supposed to be too old, and too cool, to do things like that in public but at the moment Kurt did not care. And his dad did not seem to object, just draping an arm around his shoulders and squeezing back.

They did not speak as they walked up to the ticket window, but when they got there the sentimental moment was abruptly broken as the ticket-taker, a plump grandmotherly looking woman, asked, "One adult and one child?"

Kurt glanced at the cards in the window, noting that a child admission was only for kids under 14. He shot his dad a look that could peel paint when Burt just smiled and paid for the tickets without bothering to correct the assumption.

"Dad!" he exploded the moment they were out of earshot.

"What? Did you see those prices? They're still charging a full day's admission and we're not gonna be here more than a few hours. Half-price on one ticket seemed fair."

"But you let her think that I was 13!" he pressed, his voice squeaking up in outrage on the last word. Abruptly, he sighed. Crap, now he sounded like his voice was still changing. _Way to make your point, Kurt. _

Unrepentant, Burt just chuckled. "Maybe younger."

"_Dad_," he said again, turning the word into a groan. He slid the neon-orange wristband that he had been given as proof of payment under the edge of his sleeve. There was no need to openly display the God-awful thing. "Just for that you are going on the Turbo Twist with me later, and I don't want to hear any argument."

Burt looked a little uncertain. "The roller coaster?"

His father hated roller coasters and Kurt knew it. "Yes."

Eyes scanning the bright lights in the center of the park, Burt searched out the ride in question, turning a little pale when he found it. It really wasn't all that impressive, in Kurt's opinion. Just a couple of steep dips and a large twisting loop in the center that gave the coaster its name, but it was clearly intimidating to a man who routinely avoided such rides. "Maybe I'll just go back and pay the lady her extra six bucks."

"Oh, no, no, no, no," Kurt countered, grinning as he urged his father toward the midway with a firm hand in the middle of his back. "What is it you always say to me? Do the crime, you do the time? You owe me this one."

Burt Hummel sighed deeply. "Fine, one ride, but we'd better do it before we have anything to eat, if you know what I mean."

"You are just determined to gross me out tonight, aren't you?"

"Hey, just offering fair warning here," he said, holding up his hands.

Kurt could not help smiling. "Why don't we check out the games first? I'll let you beat me at a couple just to calm your nerves."

Burt laughed. "Oh, you're going to let me win, are you?"

Smiling slyly, he said, "Well, I wouldn't want to brag but I _am_ pretty good at these things."

"We'll just see about that!"

Over the next hour, they tried out a number of different games. Burt crushed his son at skee-ball, narrowly won at whack-a-mole after Kurt started laughing too hard at his father's "concentration face" to maintain his aim, and easily bested Kurt at the shooting gallery. Kurt, in turn, triumphed with the ring-toss, using a fast and efficient wrist-snap to send all three of his plastic rings sailing neatly over the necks of waiting bottles and earning a few suspicious questions about the "perfectly innocent" poker nights that Kurt occasionally hosted for his Glee friends. He had also, much to Burt's surprise, bested him at the race-track game, firing his high-powered squirt gun with such precision that his cardboard pony crossed the finish line well ahead of all the others.

"Horse-racing, high-speed card shuffling, I'm really starting to wonder about you, kid," Burt teased him. "Maybe when you turn 18, we ought to consider a trip to Vegas."

"I'm willing if you are," he replied at once, knowing that his father was kidding but not about to pass up a chance to plant a little seed in his subconscious. Las Vegas was the perfect melting pot of tacky and tempting and he was dying to see it for himself one day.

Burt just smiled. "We'll see. You want to take this stuff back to the car before we go do anything else?"

They had won several little prizes, including a couple of stuffed animals that neither one knew quite what to do with, and a poster of Zac Efron that Kurt was so openly enamored of that it had made Burt a bit squirmy.

"Sure," Kurt agreed, patting the rolled up poster affectionately. "I don't want anything to happen to Zac before I can get him back to my bedroom."

A weird choking noise caught in Burt's throat. "Please don't say that."

Kurt looked at the ground, his playful mood replaced by that little frisson of shame that he could not prevent whenever he realized that he had just made his father uncomfortable with a reference to his sexuality. "Sorry, Dad. I just meant . . . I don't want the poster to get crumpled up or lost on a ride somewhere."

"No, I'm sorry," Burt said, squeezing his shoulder. "I mean, I'd be lying if I said that I swiped my older brother's Farrah Fawcett poster back in the day because I liked her hair-do. You have the same right to drool over some pretty-boy if you want to. I just . . ."

"You'd rather not know it's happening, if you can help it."

Burt sighed. "Yeah. One of these days, I will get this, Kurt. I promise, I will. I guess I'm just not quite there yet."

"It's fine," Kurt told him, affecting a careless shrug. "To be honest, I'd really rather not think about you and Farrah either."

A burst of startled laughter gave away Burt's relief and Kurt laughed too. His dad wasn't perfect, but he was trying hard and that counted for a lot.

Suddenly, Kurt's phone buzzed in his pocket. Pulling it out, he checked the display and smiled when he saw that it read: 'McQueen?'

Realizing that, in spite of the uncomfortable moment they had just shared, he and his father were doing fine, Kurt decided to share. Showing his dad the text, he said, "Mercedes, Artie and Tina are here. They want to know if they can join us for awhile."

Burt looked at the message in confusion. "You got all that from McQueen?"

Kurt quickly explained the code. "I wasn't sure if we'd be driving each other crazy or not," he admitted with a small shrug.

His father chuckled. "You make me feel like a bad blind-date. I'm good with 'A' but your friends are more than welcome to join us, if you want."

"Thanks, Dad," he said, beaming with the pleasure of knowing that his father was happy to keep tonight to just the two of them, but that he was also sincere in his offer. "How about just for dinner?"

"Dinner is good. Tell 'em to come have a corn-dog on me."

Kurt made a face at the suggested cuisine but texted back, "A-OK – but L if you want free food, per Dad. Where R U?"

With a laugh, he showed his dad the immediate return message: Pkg Lot. Strappin the napkin. "That means they'd love to. They'll be here in a minute."

The Hummels strolled back to the park entrance, waving when Artie's wheelchair came into view, closely followed by Tina and Mercedes.

"Hi, kids," Burt greeted, exchanging a quick, silent Q&A with Artie before taking control of his wheelchair, leaving the girls free to attack Kurt with hugs. Artie just grinned and rolled his eyes as if to say, 'girls, what can you expect?'

"Hey, Mr. H," Mercedes returned, smiling brightly. "Thanks for inviting us to join you!"

Tina, always more shy than her friends, just blushed and offered a quiet, "Thanks."

He nodded to them. "Well, I kind of owed you a meal," he told Mercedes. "Seeing's how you missed out on my special chicken casserole the other night. What's a couple more people?"

A sharp double-squeal of joy interrupted as Kurt handed over his game-winning stuffed animals to the two girls. "For you," he said, giving Mercedes the goofy-looking blue unicorn and Tina the even more absurd hot-pink hippo he had won. Fair-ground stuffed animals did not seem to come in average colors or non-embarrassing styles. He grinned at Artie. "Sorry, I don't have another one for you."

Artie laughed. "I'll live with the disappointment."

Burt smiled and shook his head as they approached the food pavilion. "Why don't you guys find us a good place to sit and figure out what you want for dinner? I'll run Kurt's poster back to the car."

"Sure you don't mind?" Kurt asked, surprised by the offer. "I can do it."

His dad waved him off. "Nah, I got it. You stay here. I'll make sure your poster boy is safely tucked into the back seat where he won't get hurt."

Knowing perfectly well that his father was overcompensating a little in an effort to make up for his instinctive reaction of a few minutes ago, Kurt smiled and said, "Don't think this is getting you out of the Turbo Twister, Dad."

Burt sighed. "Damn. In that case, go wait for me by the Coaster. I wasn't kidding about wanting to get this over with before we eat."

~#~#~#~#~#~

The roller coaster was old and, unfortunately, not equipped for wheelchairs. Some of the newer rides were but the coaster was the oldest attraction in the park and had not moved ahead with the times. Artie, however, did not seem to be disappointed in the least. "Sorry, guys, but being flipped and spun like a giant cat toy isn't my idea of a good time," he told the girls when they mournfully offered to sit out with him while Kurt and his dad took a ride. "I'll hold your stuff."

"I'm with you," Burt told him, grimly looking up at the intimidating thing. "You sure I can't talk you out of this, Kurt? I'll buy you one of those weird-looking furry sweaters you like so much."

For a moment, Kurt was strongly tempted. Two minutes and a few measly dollars, or **hours** of sheer envy from the students in his class by wearing a dazzling new Gucci sweater. It seemed like a no brainer, but . . . "This is a matter of pride, Dad," he said, sternly pointing a finger at the garishly painted structure.

Kurt paid for the ride himself. He was not _that_ cruel, and he also paid for Tina and Mercedes. Artie was laughing at them from the nicely grounded safety of his chair as he was showered with coats, purses and stuffed animals.

At this time of night, the roller coaster was not crowded and the line moved along quickly. Within a couple of minutes, the two pairs were seated in the sled-seats, Mercedes and Tina in front with Kurt and Burt behind them.

"You okay, Dad?" Kurt asked, unable to stop grinning at the grimly determined expression on his father's face. "You know the whole ride probably only lasts about 90 seconds, right?"

"Probably?" he asked, lifting his attention away from his white-knuckled grip on the safety bar. "You've been on this before, right?"

Kurt could feel his face heating up. "Well, no. I haven't been out here since the last time I came with you and Mom, remember? I was seven, then, not tall enough to ride."

Surprise flickered in Burt's eyes. "I guess I forgot about that." He studied his son carefully for a moment. "You didn't really want me to do this with you for revenge, did you?"

Ducking his head to avoid that pointed gaze, Kurt said, "Not entirely." His father continued to stare, that silent patience that Kurt never could manage to hold out on for long. "Mom used to love roller coasters. She used to tease you about being afraid to ride them. I was afraid too, but I wanted to ride this roller coaster really, really bad, and Mom promised that when I was older and a little taller, we'd go on it together. And-and she used to tell you that you should be brave . . . like me. She was just kidding, I know that, but she'd say that being afraid of the unknown was silly and that if we could just face this one little fear together, then we'd be able to face anything."

"You remember all that?" Burt asked him, awe in his tone.

Kurt nodded. "I don't know why. I think, reading her letters kind of brought it back for me." Finally, he looked up, meeting his father's eyes. "Do you think maybe she was talking about more than just the ride?"

Draping an arm around his shoulders again, Burt squeezed him tightly. "That sounds like your mom, all over." The ride began to move forward, and Burt automatically clutched the rail harder, his arm around Kurt never loosening. "We can do this thing, Kurt. Let's just hang on and see where it takes us."

Kurt also gripped the railing, squeezing his father's hand with his. "Here we go!"

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

The roller coaster was old, but it was fast. The sled rocketed up, down and around the track, plunging down the inclines with stomach-dropping suddenness and making its occupants scream, whoop and laugh out loud as it barreled through the corkscrew turns. Mercedes and Tina screeched like a pair of banshees throughout the entire thing. Burt kept his teeth clenched and his eyes screwed shut for most of it, finding that the joyful screaming and wild laughter of his son made for a wonderful distraction.

As the death-trap . . . uh, _ride_, slowed to a stop and Burt finally felt it safe to open his eyes, he could not help smiling at the sight of the rosy-cheeked, sparkling-eyed boy with the wild, wind tossed hair who sat beside him. Kurt was grinning so broadly that it looked almost painful, and Burt felt a different kind of pain in his own heart. When was the last time he had seen Kurt drop his protective barriers and just enjoy himself with such open, childish abandon? It bothered him that he could not remember.

"Well, I guess we made it," he said jovially, hoping his inner musings did not show on his face. Kurt was disturbingly good at reading his moods and he did not want to do anything that would dim the happy light in his eyes.

Luckily, Kurt was too caught up in his own excitement to notice. "That was _great_," he gushed. "Even better than I thought it would be!"

He hopped out of the sled and gallantly offered each of the girls a hand getting out, leaving his father to stagger off in his own good time. Burt walked down the ramp slowly, following the three teenagers who had all raced down it and were already babbling out a replay of the action to an indulgently grinning Artie.

Burt groaned gratefully as he took a seat on an unoccupied bench next to the outer wall of the stomach flipping ride.

"You okay, Mr. Hummel?" Artie laughed.

"Fine," he grunted, waving off the concerned look he got from Kurt. "Just giving my stomach a minute to appreciate normal gravity again."

Kurt sat down next to him and leaned over, giving his shoulder a playful nudge. "I thought you did great, Dad. You never looked scared at all."

He snorted and plucked off his baseball cap, a red one bearing the logo of Hummel Tires & Lube, and plopped it down over Kurt's thick brown locks. "I know that's a lie, but I'll take it."

"Dad, this totally clashes with my outfit," Kurt complained, and yet he did not make any move to take off the cap.

"I don't know," Mercedes countered, grinning at the two of them as she hugged her newly reacquired blue unicorn. "They say that rural-chic is very in this season."

Artie chimed in. "And if it isn't, maybe you'll be the one who brings redneck couture into style."

Burt smiled and tugged the cap down over Kurt's eyes. "What do you think of that?"

"I'll pass," he said wryly, making them all laugh as he gave the hat back and fussily adjusted his bangs, a look of dismay stealing over his fine-boned features as he ran both hands over his hair and realized how unkempt the previously perfect coif had become after his ride on the roller-coaster.

"Here," Tina offered, reaching into her backpack and pulling out a stocking cap. It was dark blue with narrow white stripes, an alternate to the black with green stripes version that she currently wore on her own head. "It matches your outfit."

Kurt considered the cap for a moment. "Thanks, Tina. It _is_ getting colder out," he said, justifying the doubtful item to himself as he settled it into place. "How does it look?"

"Good," Mercedes decided, cocking her head critically to one side. "With that jacket and scarf, you kind of look like you could be in one of those designer winter sport catalogues."

"Think so?" he asked, standing up and striking a haughty pose.

Tina agreed, "Sure. You kind of scream: hot gay ski instructor."

Burt bit down on his tongue to keep from commenting. That didn't sound like such a great compliment to him, but from the way Kurt was preening he obviously felt otherwise.

"Well, I hope none of you runway-models are planning to give up eating," Burt teased them, wanting to interrupt the fantasy world before they started really calling attention to themselves, "Because I'm hungry."

"Hey, food over fashion, that's my motto," Artie said at once. "That pizza stand we passed by looked pretty good."

"I could go for a slice," Mercedes told them, eyes brightening with renewed interest.

Tina nodded and even Kurt agreed that pizza seemed like a good choice, as long as he could have one of the pre-packaged side salads to go with it.

"Sounds good to me," Burt agreed, herding the group in the right direction. "I think I'll just ask if they'll sell us a whole one."

It turned out that the employees at the pizza stand were very happy to do so. With the sparse and ever-thinning Tuesday crowd on hand, they were clearly not doing much business. A pepperoni pizza, three side salads for Kurt, Mercedes and Tina – Artie and Burt could not be bothered with vegetables, much to Kurt's disgust – and a round of five large soft-drinks was probably more business than the place had seen in hours.

As they ate, Burt was made aware of all the latest goings-on in glee club, as well as a certain amount of high school gossip, but he just let it all wash over him without giving it any real attention. He only really came back to the conversation when Mercedes said, "Thanks again for dinner, you guys. We'd better get going if we want to hit the rest of the rides before curfew. Mom says I have to be home early, since it's a school night."

Glancing at Kurt, who had finished eating and was now sipping delicately from his straw, somehow managing to nod around the action, Burt asked, "Did you want to join them?"

"No," he said simply. "Tonight is about you and me, Dad. They understand."

"It's cool, Mr. Hummel," Artie told him with a smile, pulling his wheelchair back from the plastic picnic bench at which they all sat. "It was really nice of you to buy us all dinner, but we don't want to intrude on family time."

The girls nodded, in full agreement, but it was the serene expression on Kurt's face that really convinced him. Pleased to realize that his son genuinely wanted to spend more time alone with him, Burt smiled at the other youngsters. "In that case, can I get you guys stick around and do one last thing with us?"

They nodded immediately, curiosity filling all four young faces.

"Come on," he said, standing up and tossing away the trash from their meal. Leading the way, Burt walked about a hundred yards down from the food pavilion, to where he had spotted an old-fashioned photo booth. "I think tonight is worth a few souvenir shots, don't you?"

Everyone was charmed with this idea and for the next half-hour they took turns playing in the photo booth, singly, in pairs and in groups, racking up about twenty dollars worth of overpriced snapshots before they were done. As the booth attendant passed him an envelope filled with finished photo strips, Burt had to laugh. The last strip featured all of the kids making kissy-faces at each other. The girls kissing each of the boys on both cheeks, the boys doing the same for the girls, and a comedic snap of Kurt holding an exaggeratedly puckering Artie at arms' length with a faux-terrified expression on his face.

Burt was especially pleased by that last shot. He had always liked Artie Abrams, who had been Kurt's friend since they were both nine years old, and it was comforting to realize that the other boy had taken Kurt's coming-out in stride, treating it with the same casual equanimity with which Artie seemed to greet all of life's challenges.

He came across another strip, this one of just himself and Kurt. They had been goofing off for each shot, following the directions Mercedes and Tina shouted out for them. Everything from "Smile!" to "Look tough!" to "A Flying Saucer just landed in your back yard!"

A long-nailed, dark-skinned finger suddenly moved into his line of vision, tapping the picture of them doing their best to look tough. "This one." Burt looked at Mercedes, finding that she had dragged Kurt over to see, too. "And this one." She pointed to the last shot on the strip, Burt and Kurt simply looking at each other and laughing.

"What about them?" Kurt asked, clearly just as puzzled as his father.

"I didn't tell you to do that. You just did," she said, drawing their attention to the first photo again. Father and son had shifted to sit back to back on the narrow bench, crossing their arms over their chests and nodding toward the camera with squinted, steely blue gazes under furrowed eyebrows. The pose was exact. "Next time you guys think you don't have anything in common, I want you to look at these two pictures and know that you do."

Patting each of them on the shoulder, she kissed Kurt's cheek and said, "See you tomorrow. You can bring us our pictures then."

"And my hat!" Tina chimed in.

"Night, Mister Hummel," the three teens called out, already moving away as they waved back and yelled, "Thanks!"

Glancing at the pictures in his hand again, Burt smiled. "Your girlfriend certainly knows how to make a point."

Kurt laughed. "She does, doesn't she?"

Burt paused, studying Mercedes' favorite pose again for a moment. "Were you making the Steve McQueen face?"

He smiled. "Yes, but so were you."

"Good taste in movies is obviously an inherited trait."

Kurt playfully plucked at the collar of his red plaid shirt. "And clearly you were right all along. The more vital areas of my personality and taste were inherited from Mom."

Burt looped an arm around his neck, causing Kurt to laugh as they began to walk back toward the entrance. "All right, smart guy. It's still early. What do you say we take one last cruise through the arcade, then head on home for a movie, complete with some popcorn and hot chocolate?"

The boy momentarily pressed the side of his head against Burt's shoulder, which was a little awkward while walking, but manageable. "I think that sounds great." He thought for a moment, then asked playfully. "How do you feel about 'Cars'?"

"I've always had a soft spot for Lightning. You know, small, flashy, loyal to his friends?"

"I think I prefer Mater. A little plain on the outside, but pure gold on the inside, where it counts."

Burt smiled. "Maybe that's why they were best friends."

Kurt smiled back. "Maybe so. Let's forget the arcade, Dad. I think I've got everything I wanted out of Birch Park tonight."

"Me, too, Son. Let's go home."

THE END


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